


small mercies

by iiastriferii



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Some Fluff, Squirting, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Voice Kink, as a treat, bill masters fuckers this one's for you, essentially they run into each other at a party and have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiastriferii/pseuds/iiastriferii
Summary: They lock eyes, and Aziraphale knows then that there are far better ways to spend his evening.It's 1955. An angel and demon run into each other, and decide to indulge a bit.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 194
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	small mercies

**June 17th, 1955**

Aziraphale knew that there were people talking to him. He also knew that he hadn’t been tuned in for the last quarter of an hour. He sipped the last of the scotch in his glass, put it on a passing tray, and seized a flute of champagne in its stead. He was, begrudgingly, forcing himself to stay sober. The sting of tannins on his tongue and the vague bewilderment every time someone in the room looked back to see their glass had been refilled were fat red cherries on the sundae of his mounting annoyance.

Aziraphale, by nature, was an even tempered angel. He considered himself to be the model of decorum and, perhaps a bit erroneously, the vague paradigm of good behavior.

He could almost hear a certain companion of his sniff derisively at that one. When he received the missive from Upstairs, “America for one year, there are some select souls that need special guidance to the light,” he couldn’t very well say no. It was some big business magnate whose name had escaped him this late into the party. Apparently, he was leading his entire family to sin and could use a gentle, heavenly nudge towards the side of good. That would have been all well and good, if not for an addendum scrawled at the bottom of the letter in Gabriel’s absurdly perfect handwriting.

> _Aziraphale,_
> 
> _We looked over the files, and found this one is going to need some minor changes to your corporation. We’re confident you can figure it out._
> 
> _Archangel Gabriel._

He resisted the urge to scoff into his glass. What the letter had failed to mention was the fact that his target was a vehement American nationalist with a near personal grudge towards Britain and anyone else he and his ilk deemed ‘not like them’. Honestly, it was downright disgusting and he was sure that as an angel, he was supposed to be discouraging that kind of nonsense. Be that as it may, it was determined that in order to get close he would have to ...blend in, a little bit.

So, here he was. A dimly lit, jazzy dinner party held in the absurd ballroom of his target’s mansion. The cut of his dark- dark, honestly!- suit was sharper than his usual Victorian fare and for once in his celestial life, his hair had been combed back with some minty smelling pomade.

The worst part, he’d determined however, was the accent.

Americans spoke so much straighter than British people, and it had taken a week of practicing in the mirror before he felt confident enough to step outside and speak as though he’d always lived there. He sighed through his nose, taking another long swig of his drink and eyeing the crowd. A flash of red hair caught his eye, and he froze. Aziraphale lowered his glass, then shook his head. It couldn’t be-

“You still with us, Fell?” asked one of the men with whom he was supposed to be conversing. He snapped back to the conversation as though he had never left, sinking into the skin he had made for himself. All the while, he kept a weather eye on the ballroom.

༻✦༺

If someone were to tell Anthony J Crowley that he would walk into an American party - a high class, jazzy party complete with smoking, drinking, and whispered propositions- and see bloody Aziraphale of all people, he would have laughed in their face and sauntered off. Yet, here was the angel now. He looked about as unangelic as they came, hair combed back and his black suit cutting a severe line against the brightly lit musicians’ stage behind him. He was also talking to Crowley’s mark, and the opportunity to get closer, to talk to Aziraphale and offer up anything so that they could spend a modicum of time together was too strong for even a demon like him to resist. He wove through the crowd, grabbing a champagne to nurse alongside his curiosity.

They were no strangers to sharing assignments, obviously. The only rub was that Upstairs had never required the angel to change his look in any way. The only instructions they gave were to not fail, as far as he knew. Beyond that, nothing. Crowley slunk closer, opening his ears, and promptly froze. It struck him then, the timbre which Aziraphale’s voice had taken on. The drop in register, and that fucking accent. By all rights, Aziraphale speaking like an American should not have lit the fire in his gut like it did. He slunk around their little group some more, hanging on to every word that passed his angel’s teeth. The words vibrated him to his core. He gulped down the rest of his champagne, the alcohol burning a hole in his stomach. He lowered his glass, and saw that Aziraphale was looking right at him. 

༻✦༺

The influx of energy in the room had been impossible to miss. Aziraphale watched Crowley circle his little group not unlike a ravenous predator. It was obvious enough that this conversation was going nowhere, and while Aziraphale had been blessed with heavenly patience, even he was not immune to the occasional temptation. They locked eyes, and he knew then that there were far better ways to spend his evening. He excused himself as politely as he could, shifting away from the men and women still engaged in their gossip. Crowley was a vision, hair combed back and dressed in a slim cut suit and turtleneck. A bright red scarf hung about his neck, and a gold ring styled both of his middle fingers. He lifted his glass, a nod to their salutaria of the past.

“Angel.”

“Crowley.”

Hearing his name said like that did...things. Crowley did not consider himself a weak demon, but that nearly defeated him on impact. He twirled the stem of his glass, trying to look at Aziraphale’s eyes but falling, ultimately, on his mouth.

“I supposed you’re here for work as well?”

“Fancy that, Angel.” He swallowed around his words. Why was he being so bloody useless now of all times? “I think we’re after the same man.”

Aziraphale huffed into his glass, eyes rolling. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m rather glad you showed up, I think the boredom was going to discorporate me.”

Crowley, feeling brave, shifted a hair’s breadth closer. “ I think we're cancelling each other out again, Angel.”

Aziraphale paused mid sip, then lowered his glass. They were close enough now that Crowley could see how those eyes, blue as the ocean, had darkened.

“I think we are.”

“Be easier if we just minded our own business.”

“This one time, I think I’m inclined to agree.” Aziraphale gave him a meaningful look, eyes flicking upwards. Crowley followed, his gaze handing on a partially secluded balcony overlooking the ballroom. Aziraphale looked back at him, giving him the smallest smile.

“Five minutes, then?”

He turned without so much as a by your leave, and disappeared into the crowd. Crowley slithered around the ballroom, downing his champagne and recalling the last time they had chanced something like this. They had found themselves on opposite sides of a conflict in Egypt, one that was, to both their relief and chagrin, solved by the humans before either of them could get too deeply involved. Bereft of anything to do for the next week before they received orders again, Crowley had invited Aziraphale back to his for drinks and ended up with his serpentine spine contorted in every position he knew, as well as a few that Aziraphale taught him on the spot. By the end of it, he had been sweaty, wrung out and positively satisfied. Aziraphale had been called away first, some business taking him to Spain, and Crowley would never forget the look on the angel’s face as he left. Tender, but hungry. A week hadn’t filled his appetite, and though Crowley knew tonight would be but a drop of water to a parched tongue, it had been far too long. They would, the both of them, take what they could get.

Counting down the longest five minutes of his immortal life was about as pleasant as being flung bodily onto the floor of the Sistine Chapel in nothing but his skivvies. He could feel himself readying, warming up at just the thought of Aziraphale’s hands on his skin once more. When the time was nearly gone, he looked to the balcony again. This time, there was a figure looking over the guests. Crowley sucked in a breath, set down his glass, and picked through the crowd. A warm coil of arousal had settled low in his stomach. He found the secluded hall and the stairs leading to the balcony, paneled wooden doors that gave easily to his enthusiastic push.

Aziraphale cut a stunningly handsome figure against this backdrop, a glass of whiskey in his hand now and arms stretched out across the balcony railing. Crowley leaned on the door.

“Have I been propositioned, Angel?”

Aziraphale did not turn to look at him, but instead took a sip of his drink and laughed. “The answer to that question lies with you, dearest.”

He held out a hand, head turning just enough to grant Crowley a view of that profile.

“Come here.”

Crowley’s legs moved of their own accord, carrying him past Aziraphale and to the railing. He braced his hands on the cool metal, a warm and solid presence coming up behind him.

“This,” said Aziraphale, laying kisses on Crowley’s neck, “was not at all how I pictured this night going.”

Crowley let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a hiss, grasping the railing a little tighter. “Don’t tell me you’re complaining, Angel.”

He got his answer when Aziraphale’s length, heavy and wanting, settled against his backside. Aziraphale rocked into him slowly, the movements nearly imperceptible.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.” Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale hadn’t changed his voice. That gorgeous baritone settled in his body, turned his bones to jelly.

“Aziraphale...” he gasped. “The guests.”

A hum, a snap, and the faint scent of ozone in the air. A miracle administered so freely, and for what purpose?

“Satisfied, fiend?” He ground himself up again, and Crowley could feel now how much his own underwear was drenched.

A bloody excellent purpose, that was what.

“Mmh, _yes_ , Angel.” He pushed back, following Aziraphale’s rhythm until the Angel was gasping into his ear.

“You lovely thing. Gorgeous serpent. You couldn’t resist, could you?” He cupped Crowley through his pants, earning a shuddering whine. “Seek me out, find me while I’m working-“ a sharp thrust that forced Crowley to cover his mouth- “ Just so I could wring out that gorgeous little cunt of yours. Guess what, darling?”

Crowley was nearly gone with lust by now, making little noises with every grind and clenching around nothing. He needed it, now. “Whatsat, Angel?”

Aziraphale fumbled with his fly, tugged down his trousers and pants just enough to free his cock. He did the same to Crowley, exposing his soaking cunt to the cool air. Crowley twitched once more, leaning back just to feel what his lover was about to do.

“It worked,” said Aziraphale, who then slid in to the hilt. Crowley couldn’t help his choked cry, the sound echoing and coming back to his ears, but apparently bypassing everyone else in the room. He gripped the railing, spreading his legs some more and leaning forward.

“Angel!”

Aziraphale set a slow pace at first, kissing and licking Crowley’s ears, whispering filthy things that only made the demon moan, sob and cry out harder.

“Oh Go- Sa- Oh bloody fuck, Aziraphale!” he moaned. “Just- just like that, right there, Angel, right _there_! Ah, _fuck_!”

He watched the people down below, completely unaware of what was going on just above their heads. Aziraphale grabbed his leg, bent it on the railing, and resumed his punishing pace.

“My tight darling,” he murmured. “So good for me, so loud and so willing. You’re a treasure, my dear Crowley. A treasure to have, a treasure to make love to.”

Crowley was gone. Narrowed down to the sensations in his cunt, he could only whine, moan, and call out for Aziraphale. The thrusts sped up, Aziraphale’s fingers digging bruises into Crowley’s sides. On his neck, he was sure there were enough love bites to last him for weeks. Aziraphale panted into his neck, tensing up at his back. Fingers gripped harsh divots into Crowley’s skin, and he _loved_ it.

“Crowley,” he groaned, “oh beloved, I’m going to-“

“Inside!” he wailed. “Please, Angel, inside.”

This was Aziraphale’s undoing. He thrust once more and held Crowley’s hips fast, shuddering and sighing through his orgasm, grunting as he ground himself into Crowley through it. He leaned in, kissing Crowley’s ear once more.

“Would you like to come, my sweet?”

“Fucking please, Angel!”

“Since you’ve asked nicely, I suppose.” His fingers found Crowley’s clit, slick and fat, overly sensitive and begging for that final release. He rubbed quick circles and just like that, Crowley was gone, spraying his release onto the floor and over Aziraphale’s cock with a full body shudder and a final, agonized cry.

When all was said and done, the demon had to be carried away from the balcony, a quick miracle to rid it of their mess and to wipe any residual memories. They settled on a chaise somewhere in the house so Crowley could breathe and orient himself once more.

When he finally felt alive enough to speak, Crowley let out a weak laugh. “Christ, Angel.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

He buried his face in Aziraphale’s chest, legs and entrance still spasming. “Next time you’re on assignment,” he said between heaving breaths, “let me know, yeah?”

Aziraphale laughed, kissing Crowley several times and righting their clothes. “Of course, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> One of my quarantine rewatches was Masters of Sex, and after the balcony scene I just HAD to write this one. I have a multi chapter in the works now, my first in like...forever XD Hope you liked this one, and don't hesitate to comment if you want :)
> 
> Come hang out w/ me on twitter @iiastriferii


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